CHAPTER 21.

Solving a case is akin to putting a puzzle together. The kind that has a thousand infinitesimal pieces, some of which are missing, damaged, or false. Initially, none of those pieces seem to have a place in the big picture. They're the wrong color or shape or size. It's my job to persevere and figure out which ones to toss aside, which ones to keep. One excruciating piece at a time, an image will emerge.

After leaving the Kuhns' place, I drop Glock at the station and start for home to grab a shower and then head to Wooster to see Tomasetti. Somewhere between the station and my house, I change my mind. I blame the case, of course. Work is an acceptable excuse-especially when you're a cop-and one he's obliged to understand. The problem is, it's a lie.

John Tomasetti is probably the best thing that's ever happened to me. I know I'm risking this thing we've created between us. But some small, self-destructive part of me won't let me reach out. Perhaps the same part that won't let me partake in the happiness that's within my grasp for the first time in my adult life.

It's 10:00 P.M. and once again I'm behind the wheel of my Explorer, camped out at the dead-end turnaround fifty yards from the mouth of the Borntrager lane. The light inside the house went dark half an hour ago. Nothing has moved since. Not a single vehicle or buggy has been on the road, not even to turn around. I don't think anyone is going to show up, but sitting here is better than going home to face an empty house and my own uneasy thoughts.

My mind is on Mattie tonight. Oddly, the things I'm dwelling on have little to do with the case and everything to do with the past that built us into the women we are today. I wonder where her thoughts have taken her tonight. Is she agonizing over the deaths of her husband and children? Is she thinking about the words between us? Wondering if Wayne Kuhns did something unforgivable? Blaming herself for not handling the situation differently? Is she as troubled as me?

At ten-thirty, I call Tomasetti.

"I take it you're not going to make it," he says without preamble.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. You're exactly where you want to be and that's the way it should be."

Something in his voice sc.r.a.pes at my conscience. Makes me feel callous and self-centered. I tell him about Wayne Kuhns.

"Are you watching her place now?" he asks.

"I thought I'd camp out for a couple of hours."

"You sure you're not hiding out?" he asks after a moment. "From me?" From us?

He doesn't have to say the words; we're both thinking them. "I could be."

"You know, Kate, sooner or later we're going to have to deal with this white elephant that's been hanging out with us for the last few months."

My initial impulse is to tell him I don't know what he means, but the response would be disingenuous. I'm well acquainted with the white elephant he's referring to, and while it's the one subject I don't want to broach, I owe it to him-to myself-to be honest. If only that weren't so d.a.m.n hard.

"Do you want me to spell it out for you?" he asks. "Clear the air?"

His tone reveals no anger. But his frustration with me comes through the line as clearly as if he'd shouted the words. "You don't have to spell it out."

"One of us has to, or things are going to stay the same until one of us gets sick of it."

I bite back the urge to snap at him for bringing up our personal relationship when I'm in the midst of a difficult case. But this discussion has been building for quite some time. Sooner or later-whether I want to or not-we're going to have to deal with it. Just not tonight.

"Let's set it aside for now," I tell him.

"Because of the case? Or because I'm asking for something you can't give?"

"Because I need more time. I don't understand why that's so difficult for you to grasp."

I know the instant the words are out that they're a mistake. Tomasetti won't be placated by snarky phrases or bulls.h.i.t. "Is that lover-speak for we're good as long as things don't get too complicated for you?"

His tone is challenging and cool. I sit there, mute, not sure how to reply. It's as if I'm frozen on the outside, unable to speak my mind. Inside, my emotions are a jumble of molten rock, hot and churning and fusing into something unwieldy and volatile.

"I didn't mean to make you angry," I say.

"I'd like to know where I stand, Kate. Where we stand. I don't think my asking for a little clarification is unreasonable at this point."

"It's not," I concede.

He waits, putting me on the spot.

A hundred responses scroll through my mind. I'm sorry. I like things the way they are. I don't want to ruin what we have. But I've said it all before. None of them are the answer he's looking for. They won't solve the problem we face now.

"I've given you your s.p.a.ce," he says after a moment. "I haven't pushed."

"I know."

When I don't elaborate, he lowers his voice. "You're brushing me off. I don't like it."

"I'm sorry I can't give you what you want."

"Kate, what the h.e.l.l does that mean?"

"That means I need some time to figure this out."

"If you haven't figured this out by now, we're in trouble."

"Tomasetti, I can't discuss this right now. I have to go."

He laughs. I don't know if he's genuinely amused by this perplexing impa.s.se, or if he's trying to anger me. "Of course you do. That's your MO. When things get complicated or difficult, you cut and run."

"That's not fair."

"I'm not a fair man. You should know that by now."

I wait a beat and say, "Tomasetti, what the h.e.l.l are we doing here?"

"Arguing, apparently."

Silence falls between us. I discern his elevated breathing coming through the line and I wonder if he's as upset as I am.

After a moment, he sighs. "For chrissake."

The line goes dead.

I know he's gone, but before I can stop myself, I say his name. "Tomasetti?"

I hate the uncertainty, the need, the hurt I hear in my voice. The hiss of the dead line mocks me. I look down at the phone in my hand, rap it hard against the steering wheel. "Nice going, Burkholder."

I start to call him back, but change my mind and end the call before it dials. I get out of the Explorer and slam the door hard enough to rattle the window. The impulse to succ.u.mb to the supremely adolescent urge to throw my phone into the ditch is strong, but I resist. Barely. Instead, I opt for the more mature route, stride to the front of the vehicle, and kick the tire as hard as I can.

Feeling like an idiot, more p.i.s.sed than I have a right to be, I stand there shaking my head at my own stupidity. I'm in the process of clipping my phone to my belt when it vibrates. Mentally, I count to ten, determined to keep a handle on my temper this time. But instead of Tomasetti's number on the display, I'm surprised to see CORONER.

I hit the TALK b.u.t.ton. "You're working late tonight."

"I have a feeling I'm not the only one."

Dr. Ludwig Coblentz and I have worked together on several cases in the last few years. He's a respected pediatrician with a busy private practice-and part-time coroner for Holmes County.

"Kate, I'm finalizing the autopsy reports for the Borntrager children, and I wanted you to know about an irregularity I found on the body of the female victim. The six-year-old female, Norah Borntrager."

Thoughts of Tomasetti fall away. I find myself pressing the phone more tightly against my ear. "What do you have?"

"In the course of the autopsy, in addition to the physical trauma from the accident itself, I found older bruising. On her b.u.t.tocks. The backs of her legs."

"What kind of bruising?" Even as I pose the question, I already know.

"I believe the bruises were put there by a long, narrow instrument, such as a switch or leather crop."

The thought of those kids being disciplined with a switch disturbs me deeply. I want to think Mattie is a gentle soul and would never discipline her children in such a harsh manner. But I know that's my own bias talking. Even if she didn't partake in the spanking herself, she looked the other way while her husband did.

"Doc, are you saying she was abused?"

He sighs. "Look, Kate, I know some parents paddle their kids. I know it's an accepted practice in many homes-and many Amish homes. I was spanked as a child and, admittedly, I occasionally spanked my own boys when I thought they needed it. This is different because the vigorous use of a switch is not an acceptable form of discipline for any kid, much less a child with special needs."

I tell him about my conversation with Dr. Armitage at the Hope Clinic. "The surviving child, David, told the doctor his father had spanked him for stealing a pie and eating it."

"So we have a pattern." He pauses, thoughtful. "Even though Paul Borntrager-the likely perpetrator of the discipline-is deceased, I'm bound to notify Children Services. As you know, that will prompt an investigation. A social worker will likely perform an in-home evaluation."

"As much as I don't like the idea of putting David through any more emotional trauma, I think that's our best route. Our only choice at this point."

"Now that I know about Armitage's findings, I'll direct Children Services to the clinic as well. They'll want to talk to him, of course. They'll want to know if he has doc.u.mentation. Some physicians maintain photo or video records."

"You know they're going to remove David from the home, don't you?"

"Temporarily, I'm sure."

I fall silent, trying to get my head around all of this and how it will affect the case. How it will affect David. And Mattie.

"Kate." Doc Coblentz says my name gently, as if he already knows the direction of my thoughts. "I know you were close to this family. I just want to say this is not an indictment against the mother. If she's innocent in all of this, and by all indications she is, Children Services will conduct a psychological evaluation and see to it that she gets some parenting cla.s.ses or counseling. It's a win for her and the boy."

I sigh, unhappily. "I'll make the call to Children Services," I tell him. "Tonight."

"I know it's not an easy thing, but it's the right thing to do. The only way either of us will have any peace of mind."

When I end the call, I'm still ruminating the "peace of mind" comment.

Ten minutes later, I'm back in the Explorer, heading toward the station. Doc Coblentz's words dog me, running through my head like a ticker tape repeating the same bad news over and over again.... the vigorous use of a switch is not an acceptable form of discipline for any kid, much less a child with special needs ...

I never would have thought of Paul or Mattie as abusive parents. The notion is a weight on my chest I can't dislodge. I rap my hand against the steering wheel. "d.a.m.n you, Mattie. How could you do that to those kids?" I mutter.

I wish I hadn't p.i.s.sed off Tomasetti earlier. I'd like to run this by him, get his take on it. I'm thinking about biting the bullet and making the call when I pa.s.s by the Hope Clinic. A light in the front window snags my attention, telling me Armitage is still there, working late. I make a quick turn into the lot. There's no vehicle in front, so I drive slowly to the rear of the building. Sure enough, there's a silver Lexus parked at the side. I resolve to talk to the doctor first and then make the call to Children Services.

I park head-in against a row of scraggly bushes, walk around to the front of the building, and take the steps to the porch. I knock. Moths and other insects circle the light as I wait. After a moment, I try the door. Surprise ripples through me when the k.n.o.b turns. Pushing open the door, I step inside. The place is so quiet I can hear the bugs striking the window.

"h.e.l.lo?" I call out. "Dr. Armitage? It's Kate Burkholder."

I walk past the reception desk, peer over the counter. The phones are quiet, the desktop tidy. I go to the door that leads to the rear and push it open. Three of the four exam room doors are closed. The fourth, Armitage's office, stands open, the light from his banker's lamp bleeding into the hall. I call out again, but no one responds. I'm midway to his office when I hear the French door open. Smoke break, I think, and continue toward his office.

Armitage startles upon spotting me, nearly dropping the ashtray in his hand, a distinctly feminine yelp escaping him. "s.h.i.t, Chief!"

"I didn't mean to startle you." I raise my hands. "I was making my rounds and saw the light."

He lets out a belly laugh. "Just don't tell anyone I screamed like a girl."

"Your secret's safe with me." If I knew him better, I might have razzed him. Since I don't, I keep it professional.

"You're not going to scold me for leaving the door unlocked, are you?" he asks.

"I was thinking about it."

"You know, when I was working at the clinic in Cleveland, I'd never dream of leaving the front door unlocked, especially at night. Here..." He shakes his head. "I guess I'm getting lax."

"Well, clinics have become targets of drug thieves in the last few months." I tell him about a local veterinary hospital that was recently burglarized.

"I do keep some drugs on hand here at the clinic. Sleeping aids. Antianxiety drugs. Samples I've received from my pharmaceutical reps." He shrugs. "Living in a town like Painters Mill ... you don't think about crime like that."

"Look, Dr. Armitage, I stopped by to follow up on our earlier conversation about the Borntragers."

"You mean about the children?"

I tell him about the coroner's discovery of bruises on Norah. "I'm bound to notify Children Services now."

"I see." His expression turns troubled. "That's going to be difficult for Mattie."

I nod. "Dr. Armitage, do you think Mattie had anything to do with any of those bruises?"

"I talked to both Paul and Mattie during the months I've been treating the children. I can tell you right now she isn't the one who spanked those kids, Chief Burkholder. Paul was the disciplinarian in the family. He doled out the punishment when it came to the kids."

"The social worker will probably want to talk with you."

"You know I'll help in any way I can." He shakes his head. "I just hate to see this happen to Mattie, especially now that she's lost Paul."

"Me, too," I tell him, meaning it. "But we have to think of David."